LIKE XERXES, THE FABRIC OF A FOOL High on a lark, the butter in the tray melts on, the thin light from the kitchen air spills out, the freshening air seems everywhere. I am hiding in a cauldron - reading literature like labels on a can. Throw this down! I no longer wish to see! - The time for talk is past, and anyway, everyone gets it wrong : story lines become exhausted over time. Oh Madame X, your backside is showing, Oh Mr Wilk, I can see the bulge of that gun in your belt. The peasants are restless again, and their uprising, as did the last one, will take them to nowhere but death. More troubles abound than these streets are worth. All those girls, collaborators, those whove slept with the enemy in comfort and solace, their heads have already been shaved. - Now, these marvelous marbles are rolling their due. Heads will roll as they have before. The cardinal will step down from his throne and seduce with a papal logic the masses - they run in flames and fires to subdue the godless foes! Yet, yet, that little old lady, sorrowful and alone, remains crying in her steeple, sewing still from her morn to her night, for the partisans in hiding. - High on a lark, I am reading literature, while hiding, myself, within a cauldron. -------- garyjinn.blogspot #5895
Posted on: Sat, 13 Sep 2014 23:01:25 +0000
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